What We Do
by DivinerVIIXemSai
Summary: The full title of this piece is "What We Do Behind Doors That Don't Close." It's a reference to the phrase "behind closed doors, ' or course. AU/AR, WIP
1. Prologue

**What We Do: Prologue**

In one last great effort to defeat what sought to tear them down, Organization XIII once more rose from the ashes. Their deaths before, like all things that could not be measured, neither qualitatively or quantitatively, had been a faade. Surely the silly boy knew that the most powerful (incomplete as they may have been) beings could not be destroyed by mere tussles. Surely he knew; they used darkness to facilitate their return, and they would not bow.

So self-righteous, so convinced, they were, those twelve of them standing (mostly) there. All except Roxas, who had found his birth inside the Keyblade Bearer. Just those twelve.

Xemnas bore the most resemblance to his old self. Perhaps he was the strongest, or perhaps he was just more accepting than the others. And Demyx had only cracked a few fingers from his right hand.

But there were others: Vexen was half-complete. His face was a porcelain doll that had been dropped, smashed. Even Xigbar was missing parts. And Xaldin had been left with just a torso.

Why had this happened? All of them had been left as simple, hollow paper dolls. They moved, they talked, they deliberated, and yet all that seemed to pour out of the holes in their bodies was darkness. But never minding that they were shattered; some could still fight. If they all faced Sora at once (what they should have, arguably, done in the first place), surely he could be forced to bow.

But they were brittle, brittle people. Luxord went first. His cards faded into darkness, and this time, they would not be coming back. He, however, splintered into tiny glass bits, each one painted with a piece of Luxord upon it. Zexion could not help but notice this, as a shard of what was once the Gambler of Fate's eye landed at his foot (he only had one that this point-Lexaeus was holding up the rest of him).

So this is what they would become, should they all be defeated. Small pieces, inconsequential and littering the arena. And the shards would turn to chips. And the chips would turn to fragments. And the fragments would turn to sand. And the sand would turn to dust.

The largest piece of Demyx (one of his arms-it had been locked and raised above his head as Sora's strike had landed to his body), hit Larxene in the back of her head. And in that one moment, both of them were gone.

Lexaeus shattered while shielding Zexion, his usually substantial bulk having been whittled down to nothing. Without his protector and support, Zexion fell. And he died where he fell, the same blow that Sora had killed Lexaeus with, blade cutting through crystalline bits until fracturing the material of the Schemer's abdomen. There was no fighting chance.

Saix had faired the best-he managed to knock Sora over. But he, too, was wrecked.

Vexen was quick; perhaps quicker than before, as he was missing half of his body. But he was uncoordinated and when the keyblade fell, it was as though he had not been there at all.

It was at that point that they began to realize they were (as Xigbar so eloquently put it at the time, out-of-place as it was) 'verily fucked.' A mere adolescent had defeated them when they had been strong and functioning-what had made them think that they could defeat him while they were literally shells oozing of darkness?

While the broken bits of each member were crunched underfoot, all else faded. Weapons, robes (or what had been left of them, anyway). All gone, dead.

Xaldin, Axel, Xemnas, Xigbar, Marluxia. The last of them died in that order. Marluxia, strong-willed and cunning as he was, took conflict with the Keyblade warrior last. He was missing only one part of his old self: his face. Vain as he had been, it was a fitting purgatory.

As his scythe clashed with that of Sora's, everything that had ever been slain by it revolted. Perhaps that was why Marluxia's scythe did not fade. It ricocheted into splinters. Instead of fading, a shining shard of that rose petal pink blade buried itself in the Assassin's side. It was not the keyblade that ended him, but his own weapon.

Somehow, he rather likened it to having the last laugh.

Organization XIII no longer existed as Nobodies.


	2. Chapter 1

**What We Do: Chapter 1**

The pieces and bits of what had once been Organization XIII had turned into shards. And the shards had turned into chips. And the chips had turned into fragments. And the fragments turned into sand. And the sand had turned into dust.

Three years later, one particularly unextrordinary universe turned. Just a fraction; no one in the world to which it belonged noticed. No one even on the planet upon which it happened even noticed. Not even anyone on the continent, or in the town. No one on the street even flicked an eyelash from their daily ritual. No one, not even the young man (more of a boy, really) who was bent over the flowerbeds in his yard. He was concentrating very, very hard, but not on the flowers at all. The flowers were inconsequential-in fact, they looked a little sickly. This could have been because there was very little dirt in this garden. The boy kneeling there seemed to have purposefully piled it with gravel and large rocks. He arranged them like he arranged his silverware and china, so it didn't bother the neighbors in the least. One man's rock garden was his own business.

The turn in the universe was the result of one person, and one person only. He was currently standing across the street from the young male and his rock garden and was watching him with clear blue eyes. He had been wearing a hat, but he removed it once he saw that his brilliant pink hair would not be offending anyone at that moment.

The man with pink hair was upwind of the boy with the rock garden, and when he removed his hat, it was only a few seconds later that the boy froze, hands cupping a large flat stone. His fingernails grated against the granite for a moment as he took another whiff. Something was amiss. Something was familiar.

Their eyes never met. In fact, the boy might as well have never even noticed him. But the man with the pink hair knew better. He knew this boy. _Knew_ him. And he could read the way his nostrils flared and the way his shoulders tensed. It took him a half hour, but he finally approached, taking long, even steps before he was standing behind the boy and he became the shadow casting itself across the garden. He said nothing.

"Marluxia," the boy said.

"Zexion."

There was another silence where both figures contemplated what to do next. It was Marluxia that supposed he had to make the first move, as he had been the one to approach in the first place. "You like gardening now?"

Zexion had to admit, he was a little affronted. Three years-three lonely years-and all this man could say was...that? Just as quietly, he affirmed, "It's not the flowers. It's the rocks."

"I see. You always did have an affinity for Earth."

It was then that Zexion could take it no longer. He rose to his feet and turned around to get a proper look at the man and assess what he had never before dared himself to begin to speculate: how they had changed.

Marluxia was dressed in black, wide-brimmed hat clutched to his chest still. There was no physical shift-pink hair, lips the color of forgotten strawberries, and eyes that could make any man rethink their personal constitution. And, oh, how those eyes had been so cruel, slitted and lazy to even the most terrible cries for mercy. But now, Zexion noticed, now they were simply imploring. Whatever cruelty had been there surely must have been hastily relocated upstage of those masterfully jaded eyes.

The other man simply gave Zexion an up and down glance. "You've not gotten any taller."

It was that statement that seemed to break the ice. Immediately, the boy huffed and let his eyebrows knit together. "A quarter inch, I'll have you know; I've grown a quarter inch."

The lean to the larger-framed man gave away the fact that he had been tense, and now was starting to relax. But his gaze was still sharp, entreating. "It's been a long time, Zexion. I know you did not expect me here."

"I didn't," he shook his head, almost in wonderment of the man who stood before him. "You can't tell me you've been on this same world all along. And all of a sudden just now, you decided to-"

"No," Marluxia nearly scoffed, as if the mere idea had been silly in the first place. "It is nothing like that at all." Where his eyes had been locked to the space where Zexion's hair covered his forehead, they suddenly flickered to house that stood behind them, casting a half-shadow upon the garden. "I can speak to you about it, if you'd like." '_Inside_,' he almost added, but knew Zexion well enough to know manners were first and foremost. Just like in Castle Oblivion when Marluxia would be invited in the illusionist's room, whether he had wanted him there or not, even when he knew what would transpire beyond those doors for the hour to follow.

"Please," Zexion took a few reassuring steps backwards, as if on cue. "Come inside. I will get you something to drink."

There was nothing pleasant about their interaction, nothing too friendly; they were not friends. But it was business-like, clipped and direct. How else could they reach into themselves? It was like being dipped back into cold water, limbs becoming brittle once more where they refused to remember what they knew they remembered and they refused to act upon the old memories that they shared, lest the other perhaps not remember, even though they knew quite well they were thinking the same things.

Beyond the threshold of the front doorway, Marluxia was sure to catch every little detail, every sign. He noticed right away how absurdly _normal_ it was. There was a painting of a cornucopia on the wall facing the door, half-concealed with a coat hanger that had a black umbrella hooked on it. There were no shoes or anything cluttering the hall, and Marluxia immediately noticed the lack of _things_. There were places to put things, of course. Shelves and tables and counters (barren bookshelves). But as he followed Zexion to the kitchen, he noticed even the pot rack hanging over the middle island was empty.

"Did you just move in?" Marluxia asked in a murmured voice, taking a seat where Zexion had gestured he place himself.

"No." His body was bent double, reaching down to drag a large plate from a cabinet below (two shelves of which were empty, Marluxia noted in peering around the curve of Zexion's hip). "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I'm curious as to how you'vefaired like this." Alone. Empty. Isolated.

"Well," Zexion tightened his lips in a way that was very telling. "It was trying at first. But I made due. People are easy to persuade, I suppose. I've been in this house the entire time. Small, but nothing more than I need or want." As he spoke, he somehow drew enough objects from somewhere (because he certainly didn't keep them in his house, void as it was, apparently) to set out a tray of pastries out before Marluxia, followed by a tall glass of ice water. He then sat himself down, too, lacking any desire to stand through what he hoped would be a clear and concise explanation as to what in the name of darkness Marluxia, former Lord of Castle Oblivion, was doing in his, the former Leader of the Underground of Castle Oblivion's, front yard at approximately 10:48 that morning, a Tuesday. It had been a rather nice Tuesday, too, until he had showed up. Now it had the potential to be quite dreadful.

Marluxia eyed the sweets. "Pastries? Really, Zexion. I didn't know you were so inclined toward this sort of fare."

"I'm not. I own a shop down in town that sells these. Seems a waste not to try at least take some of the leftovers home once in a while." It was a little embarrassing, he had to admit. It was such a quaint and insignificant occupation. Demoted from a grand mastermind, schemer of an all-conquering organization to a pastry shop owner. He wondered if Marluxia had felt such a blow to his ego. Oh, and what a grand ego that man had. Grand and fragile.

Taking a brisk (if not rather amused) bite of a teacake, Marluxia tipped his head and listened. "So I see you've moved on."

Zexion scolded. "We won't be able to 'move on,' Marluxia. What happened is not something any of us will be able to forget. The best we can do is cope with what we are now forced to endure." Funny how he used the word 'we,' even though Marluxia was the first he had seen in three years. He knew nothing of what had happened to the others. Part of him had gone through the years trying to believe he was the only one left alive. No one to tell, no one to believe him, Zexion almost considered madness. As if he had woken up one morning remembering things that had been an elaborate dream that had stuck with him for longer than dreams really should have. A condition, a mental disorder.

The elephant in the room finally settled before them when their eyes met over the table.

"How did you get here?"

Marluxia set his glass down on the table with a slight noise. He said nothing, but reached into the collar of his shirt to draw out a simple line of cord. On the tip was fastened a small shard, perhaps as big as a thumbnail. It was a piece of metal, tinged with a shade of pink no metal had ever been able to acquire, save for the blade of one very, very lethal weapon.

Zexion's mouth formed a slightly parted shape, trying not to draw conclusions. But in the end, all he could do was look into that expectant face. "Your scythe? But how? How did you get that out of Never Was?"

"I didn't try to. I was the last to face the Keyblade Bearer. He shattered my weapon instead of killing me. This imbedded itself in my chest. The only thing that came with me in thisafterlife. Whatever this is."

As if unable to believe it as Marluxia told it, Zexion kept his eyes fixed on the shard. A part of him felt jealousy-why was it that _Marluxia_, of all the self-glorifying bastards, got to keep part of his weapon, his protection? "And how does this explain your interruption of my morning?"

A corner of Marluxia's lip twitched downward. Ungrateful little bitch, as usual. "This shard retains some of the darkness that rendered us powerful. Most importantly, it allows for the creation of portals."

"Ah," the clinical interest Zexion was taking in this object was somewhat odd. How could he detach himself now, of all times? Marluxia thought to himself. When the weight of the last three years was finally running all together, like wet paint on a stained canvas. He was afraid to reveal something, Marluxia knew. Zexion was very afraid and it was obvious what he had been running away from all this time. Why there was a dilly-dally shrine in his front yard, or why every bookshelf lacked books on its top ledge. Why the house was half-empty, as if waiting for someone to come home.

"I've been looking," he spoke up again as the shard of metal dangled and twirled in the light. "I've been looking for what is left of us."

"No you're not," Zexion nearly smirked, having caught the other man in the midst of a pathetic lie. "You're looking for _him._"

Their eyes met and challenged. Neither backed down for the longest time until, finally, Marluxia spoke up. "And you're grieving for him. We're even."

The Schemer's face lit up with something akin to a wildfire, stopped in his tracks. How dare Marluxia imply such bold things? How dare he make him re-live the past, if even for a moment? He didn't want to see the things he had spent so long trying to weed from his memories, from his heart. The chiseled face, smelling of leather and burnt leaves after a windstorm. And the hands that could crush metal wrapped delicately around the flossy handle of a teacup, measuring and ever-so-aware of their own strength. Because he was kind and he was courteous like no one else in that entire place; he had manners and his footsteps were reminiscent of the sound his windows would make whenever it rained hard back in Radiant Gardens, the panes thudding in their slots. It was he who made him feel like the smallest, yet most important thing on the planet, just by letting himself be cradled in those arms. Zexion could feel them sometimes, still, mostly on Sundays when he lie awake in the morning, having been woken up too early by the church bells down the street. It was then, when the clouds in his mind hadn't lifted and he could pretend the bells were just Number Four's impatient alarm, running off while the academic struggled to orient himself enough to reach over and smash his fist into the 'snooze' button (it usually had taken about 34 seconds, Zexion recalled). And those were the days when he could only take what he had for granted.

"Zexion," Marluxia murmured. "You look pale."


	3. Chapter 2

**What We Do: Chapter 2**

While Zexion and Marluxia stared at each other from across the kitchen table, another universe quite far away and on a completely different time schedule was beginning to stir. Morning was peeking over the horizon where cookie-cutter houses lined up in rows, each painted a pastel tint of some cheerful color. The milkman was already making his rounds, tipping his cap to the paperboy as he passed.

The paperboy tossed his newspapers up each driveway, letting them skid to stop a faultless of the way up. It really was quite a perfect neighborhood where everyone cut their lawn and the ladies of the street played bridge on Friday nights while their husbands went out to have a smoke and a game of bowling.

As the newspaper skidded up the driveway of the second house on Fairweather Drive (it had been painted a cheerful color of yellow by the previous owners and the current residents hadn't found a need to repaint it), the alarm inside went off at the same time. It was an old mahogany alarm clock, the bell ringing loud enough to wake the dead. Because, as the man in the bed beside the alarm clock reasoned, he was as good as.

It took exactly 34 seconds for the owner of the alarm clock to finally disentangle himself (swearing profusely in the process) and smash his fist into the unfortunate appliance to turn it off. Oh, if only waking up was an easy process-like in movies where all it took was a simple sun beam through the window.

With a sigh, the man in bed looked over to address his companion, still heavily snoozing and sprawled out on the pillow beside him. "Dudley, really. You should have woken me up earlier," he muttered, throwing off the covers. "I have work today."

Said Dudley lifted his head once and regarded the blond-haired man with an expression reminiscent of something hopeful until he saw that the man was already leaving the bedroomand without even putting on his slippers. Dudley got up and followed him out.

In that same house, as the two went about their ritualistic business, there was a desk. It was backed up against a wall in the den, overflowing with stacks of notes and books. However, amid all the clutter was a smaller leather-bound book with clasps. Upon further examination, it was revealed to be a journal. The author was obviously well-versed in keeping a journal, for everything was neat and labeled properly, as if a continuation of previous practice. In fact, it seemed as though the entries were, indeed, a continuation of another journal entirely, for there was no introduction to speak of. The first page simply opened as,

June 3, 1950,

By the time I had been so ungratefully shoved into the confines of Castle Oblivion, I had already hypothesized that what a nobody _is_ was defined by their actions. To be worthless, truly worthless would be defined solely by worthless acts, then. And, the more and more I analyzed my previous endeavors, the more and more I began to realize what it is that I had feared (so far as a nobody could fear): worthlessness.

Although I wielded a weapon and element, I was never considered a warrior; anyone who knew me knew what buttons to press in battle to have me felled fast enough. Though I was cunning and sharp, I was also hasty, temperamental, impatient, and often irrational. Number Six would have quickly diagnosed me with several psychological disorders of that nature had I existed, I'm sure. These traits led to unintentional disasters, some in the laboratory, some outside of it. Disasters nonetheless, with all fingers to point at me, indisputably.

Even though I had written volumes concerning my emptiness, I think it was that fact alone (that I was writing, writing, writing and not living it) that kept me from realizing the true gravity of what I had become. Years slipped between my pen and my notebooks until they stacked in cabinets, and yet not once had I ever thought about my nonexistence without a page in front of me. So when the time came for me to open my eyes (and it was all a matter of time), it was an experience reminiscent of being broad-sided by a semi truck while carrying an armful of groceries down the sidewalk. I didn't know what to save first-my 'groceries' (my lies, my theories), or myself.

I remember the moment it all crashed down upon me-everything about nonexistence, worthlessness, and what it meant for my consciousness to truly be hollow. Evening was soaking into the confines of my small room in the basement of Castle Oblivion and I had stepped out of the bathroom, traces of mist still clinging around my eyes as I dried my hair. My replica was laid out on the metal table on the other side of the room, his arms and legs at clinical angles that only a boy like him could achieve without popping something out of some socket somewhere. He didn't look up, didn't move as I came in and threw the towel down-never did, never would.

I traced a line from the replica to my own bed with my eyes. Why, oh, why did his metal gurney look more comfortable than my own sleeping arrangements? With a sigh that may or may not have had something to do with my back, I laid down against stark sheets.

I kept quiet as I thought, not wanting my usual muttering to make the replica uneasy (the last time he'd gotten annoyed, he stalked off into some dark confines of the lab and I didn't find him for days). But I thought, nonetheless, about how _dreadful_ it all was. It was no easy task, this non-life. One might consider and assume: no life, no hardships. It seemed an easy enough presumption. Yet, oh, how wrong it was. At that very moment, my eyes peeled back in dreamless exhaustion, I was running through each and every failure that had ever met my doorstep as a Nobody. I couldn't count even half of them, and I was actually very efficient when it came to numbers.

Like it was a bedtime story, I spoke up. "Replica, why am I a Nobody?"

"That's an easy one." He said automatically, almost as if he'd been waiting for this question the entire evening. "Because you lost your heart."

"It's not a test, Replica. I am merely asking: why?"

"I don't understand the question."

I let an exasperated sigh push from my chest, weighed down by what seemed to be the entire world. "Nobodies are supposed to have originated only from Somebodies with strong hearts. And if that is the casewhy do I still cease to exist?"

It was natural that my replica didn't know how to respond. He rarely did-his childish mind focused on only one thing at a time, and most of the time that thing was not me. How typical.

This time, however, the replica managed a small, "Vexen?"

"What?"

"I still don't understand."

"Oh, use your head, you ridiculous puppet." I snapped. "I wouldn't have given you one if I didn't intend you to use it. Think about it-what am I? I'm buried away, I am not respected, I am not acknowledged. Why, oh, _darkness_, why must I be here? It's like" My fingers clenched in an out as I struggled to find the words, too poetic for my mouth to say correctly. "like I'm a waste of space." 'Like I'm an old refrigerator,' I almost added. But, somehow, I thought I said enough, for the replica was propped up on one elbow and looking at me, eyes like waxed linoleum. For a moment, I recalled how carefully I had placed them in those deep sockets, how meticulous I had been in choosing the blues that would match best. My fingers had dug in the jar again and again, brushing past faintly rocking orbs until I had plucked one up carefully, lovingly, as to not damage their graceful arcs. I could see he remembered that part, too.

_What will it be like to see, Vexen?_

It will hurt at first, but you'll like it once I've finished. Stay still now, and be good.

"No one's perfect." He told me. "Not as perfect as me, at least." A smile. A small, genuine replica smile. "But I think your heart had merit that the darkness saw. After all, it would take someone special to make something as perfect as me." He scooted a little on his metal table, as if resisting the urge to jump off. "Right?"

I found myself swallowing a lump. "Right."

"Right." And then the replica laid back down, the metal pins in his shoulders making a crisp sound against the table.

Right. I wanted to believe that it was nothing but an empty motion when I reached across my bed to throw him an extra blanket. It half-missed him, but he caught it in his fist, curious, as if there was some mistake.

"Keep it." I explained. "It's cold down here."


	4. Chapter 3

**What We Do: Chapter 3**

_"Is there a problem, Number Eleven?"_

"Indeed. That's why I called you here."

"But so late at night?" I still remember the way the moon cast its light through the window to spill on the floor, a mockery of Kingdom Hearts. Graceless, almost, was the flood of prepubescent glory.

"I simply wanted to make sure there wouldn't be any disruptions." The Lord of Castle Oblivion said. "It would be unfortunate. After all, I have your trust?"

I hesitated, then forced an agreeable, "Indeed."

"Good. I need you to default your men to me."

The bitter sap in the air churned as I said, "Pardon me, but I don't think I heard you correctly."

"You did. Number Four, Number Five, and yourself. I'm requesting your services at my whim." He narrowed his eyes. "Please don't make merequest further."

"Number Eleven, I-"

"Zexion,_" the man nearly drawled, as if tired of the conversation already, "you may be the Leader of the Underground, but you are still under my command."_

My silver tongue went to work. "Indeed, but I can't help but worry about the productivity of having them answer to two superiors. I am, indeed, to take your orders," I nearly choked in those words, "and relay those orders to them. But from me, Marluxia. So as not to confuse."

"So you wish to keep your scientist and your marionette." He hummed wistfully for a moment, as if in thought. Then, after a sigh, he said, "You're loyal to me, aren't you Six?"

Too automatic, "Yes."

"Show me."

With knees like rusted metal plates, I bent to him.

He simply laughed. "Oh, Zexion, you do_ entertain." A feral smirk. "Now, really. Show me." A finger beckoned. And I, with what little threads I had left to hold me to my grace, followed. I only remember, as vines wound through my hair, hoping I would be able to look him in the eyes again._

Zexion sat straight up in bed, shoulders rigid. Nightmares had never come so easily before. Nightmares for the master of illusions himself were rare, but he supposed the one person who could do it to him was taking up residence in the room next door.

There was no moonlight to walk by that night, but Zexion knew the contours of the house well enough to go forth in the dark, opaquely white hands clutching doorframes as he passed.

"You couldn't sleep, either?"

Zexion turned his head sharply, jolted by the voice. Flicking on the lightswitch revealed Marluxia at the kitchen table, a cup of something hot and steaming between his palms. "No," he lied smoothly. "I needed a drink of water." He went to the sink, though it hadn't been his original path, trying not to be disturbed. "Was the couch too uncomfortable for you?" _Oh, high and mighty Lord who insists upon sleeping in a bed of rose petals and lavender-silks?_

Marluxia's mouth just curved into a small smile. Poor thing never knew when to quit. Didn't he know that his lies and schemes were transparent to him? "What nightmare did you have?"

Hunched over the sink, Zexion frowned. "Was I screaming?"

"No. I just want to know."

The illusionist whirled around, child-like face tensed in what could only be considered a mix of annoyance and apathy. "Then tell me, Marluxia: what nightmare did you have?"

"I dreamt of my first evening in the Organization. You?"

"I dreamt of that conversation we hadone of the many."

Vague as it was, Marluxia understood. He made a small noise, unable to maintain eye contact for a moment, feeling as though Zexion's gaze was attempting to violate in retaliation for what he had done in the past. "I am sorry," he finally said. "For everything."

"I have a hard time believing that you can be sorry for anything you've done," he spat back. "Heart or no, Marluxia, you are one of the most self-centered, egotistical, vain men I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. You certainly are a 'Lord.'"

"I _am_ sorry." Marluxia pushed back from the kitchen table to stand. "I am. That's why I have to find him. Do you believe for even one second that I'm seeking him out because I want to be with him again?" His lips formed a derisive smile, almost a sneer. Because who in their right mind would ever want to be with him, especially after all that had happened. After all the things he had done

_"Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes" Twin hands crept over Vexen's shoulder. The man stared listlessly into the wall as they found their resting place, crisscrossing his chest. Such gentle, caressing fingers, like those of a lover; and yet Vexen knew how cruel they could turn without even a hesitation._

A mouth, fingered with blood-soaked cream, whispered, "finish the song, Vexen."

Motionless, the scientist sat. High cheekbones caught most of the light passing over his face, the sole source radiating from a desk lamp. One of the hands reached over to flick it off. It was that moment in which both figures were plunged into darkness that Marluxia made his move, his true nature dragged to the surface, cupping Vexen's chin in a grip that could break bones and ream flesh.

"Finish the song."

"they all fall down."

Zexion was reasonably stunned. He had never heard the assassin apologize before. Remorse was not supposed to be something that man felt, and yet it seemed strangely genuine. Maybe this second chance had changed them more than he thought.

"I just want to find him," Marluxia continued. "Because if I don't, I'll never forgive myself. I need him to know that what I didit was the only thing I could do to show him how much II was obsessed with him." How could a Nobody explain how this process worked? Hate and derision were the only elements left when attraction failed to explain love. A Nobody didn't love, couldn't love, but they could try to emulate it as best as they could in the only ways they knew how. At the base level, love without emotion meant spending time together and it meant physical relations. Without emotions, 'love' had been stripped down to sex. Lots and lots of sex.

"He isn't going to want you back, you know. I saw what you did. I saw with my own eyes. Boiling water to-"

"Look, Zexion," Marluxia wrapped his fist around the cup in his hands, staring deep into its steaming contents. "When we were hollow, monsters rose in us. We were composed of demons and flaws. You were no better. Don't think I didn't hear what you did, Zexion-Ienzo-you manipulative little whore. You slept with just about anyone and everyone you wanted something from, heart or no heart. And Elaeus and Lexaeus _knew_. And he said nothing. Even with your Master Ansem for a laboratory, Ienzo? Really?"

The illusionist really hadn't expected that turn. Of all the dirty, underhanded things to do, reminding him of that was simply a kind of sick cruelty that only Marluxia could manage. "Don't you dare pretend as though you knew what I had to do. Don't pretend as though I stooped to your level."

"But you have," Marluxia nearly laughed. "You treated Lexaeus no better than I treated Vexen. You used him, manipulated him, controlled him, brainwashed him. He followed you of his own whim, but only after your games with his head. And even after that, he was disposable to you, a mechanism to help you reach books that were too high up, or a body to get up out of bed to turn the lightswitch off, because goodness knows you'd be too warm and tucked in to do it yourself."

Zexion's cheeks heated up, the reddening made plain as ever by the fact that the rest of him had drained of color. He didn't want to listen to Marluxia's snappish accusations, and, quite honestly, he wouldn't have if they had been just accusations. But they were something more than just that; they were quite true. But only to a degree, Zexion reasoned to himself-he wasn't entirely to blame. After all, they _had_ just been Nobodies. Of course Lexaeus had been useful and loyal and perfect. And of course Zexion had chosen him and manipulated him to be just that. But there was a difference between what Marluxia accused him of and the reality of things, when everything was put in perspective. They had been shells, and yet Zexion had _needed_ Lexaeus. He may not have needed him in a way a lover might, but he had still needed him. And he needed him now, which was a justifiable fact that meant there was something more to their time as Nobodies than simply acting as the used and the user.

"Do not try to make yourself stand taller by wringing blame from the rest of us," Zexion retorted, dangerous. "There was a clear difference between Lexaeus and I and what you did to Vexen. Unlike you two, we had a symbiotic relationship. I never took pleasure in hurting him."

Abruptly, Marluxia changed the subject. "What would you say to him if you saw him again? Would you apologize? Would you pretend it never happened?"

Zexion never answered the question. He simply stared. "are you offering me something?"

Both of them had known it would come down to this moment. Ever since Marluxia had seen Zexion from across the street that Tuesday morning. Ever since Zexion had seen the scythe shard. It had just been a matter of time before it came down to it, and both had been dreading it a little in their own ways.

"If I gave you the chance to come world-jumping with me, would you do it, Zexion? It will be dangerous and it will be a long journey. But if there is luck, we may somehow find some of what is left of our order. And if you are really lucky," he pulled the shard from his chest to dangle it in front of his eyes, looking past it and up at Zexion. "If you are really lucky, you might find him."

Every tie that Zexion had ever had to this world he resided in (if there ever had been any) were immediately broken, as if a large pair of scissors had snapped them all at once, no time for deliberation or second thoughts. "Yes. I would go with you."

"Then go back to bed. You'll need the rest-tomorrow morning, we leave."


	5. Chapter 4

**What We Do: Chapter 4 **

Marluxia swilled the wine in the glass before downing about half of it in one mouthful. Zexion just looked on reprovingly.

"You're lucky I had a bottle. I don't normally drink alcohol."

"This isn't as easy as it used to be," the assassin explained. "Portaling takes a lot of concentration and strength. And I've never done it with two people before."

"So please remind me once again why you're getting yourself drunk?"

"One glass isn't going to get me intoxicated," Marluxia sent a blue glare over the rim of the glass. He took another sip to finish the rest. "And it's just to.help me focus, is all." He wasn't going to tell Zexion how nerve-wracking this was for him. It was like the darkness, already rebellious and careless with their hollow bodies as Nobodies, had grown teeth and layers of chloroform-slick walls. One step in the wrong direction and he could be lost to it forever, this mere mortal all of a sudden. Zexion just didn't understand yet, what it was like to not be in control of that vast expanse of nothing.

Besideshe had been trapped in the darkness for an extended period of time. All of them had, he assumed. As they parted from their bodies, shattered upon the arena at Never Was, they had no place else to go. Marluxia remembered very clearly his consciousness suspended in the black swirling viscera of darkness, protrusions running over where his body should have been, every phantom touch running through him, as if re-building nerves and flesh where they had been reamed from existence. Had darkness saved him, or had it only cushioned his fall? For after an eternity in that chamber (he never really cared to count for himself how long it had actually been-at that point, all he knew was that he was dead. And all he could do was replay his life before him again and again), he suddenly opened his eyes and there had been light.

"If you're quite finished, I'd like to go." Zexion took the glass from Marluxia's hand and immediately went to the sink to wash it, no matter they may have been leaving this world behind for good. If the dishes weren't properly clean, that wouldn't have been acceptable, apparently.

Marluxia watched him, eyeing the bag on the counter that Zexion had packed for himself. Perhaps he had brought some food, a book or two, and a change of clothes. How quaint. "You knowI feel as though I should remind you."

"Hmm?"

"This is going to be dangerousand the worlds we were sent to I imagine were quite random in manner."

"Your point?"

"Zexion," Marluxia bit his lip and glanced out the window to try and compensate for the terrible feeling he was developing inside. "You know, we may not find him. Either of them, really. There is a chance that they are dead already."

The schemer looked up from the sink, as if every fiber of his being had been offended by that statement. "Shut up."

"I've been to worlds without air, you know. Worlds without ground where all there is to do is fall for eternity"

_Lexaeus__ always hated heights _"Don't say that," Zexion snapped, almost slamming the washed and dried glass into the cupboard too harshly. "Your rambling doesn't help the situation at all. If you think your speculations change anything, then you've been misled. Let's just go." Three years without hope and he was not about to let Marluxia dash it all to pieces again. It was not his place.

"As you wish," Marluxia sighed, pulling the shard from the chord around his neck and placing it in his palm. "Come here, then. You're going to need to hold onto me and not let go."

_Well, this will be awkward,_ Zexion thought to himself. With his mouth forming a pinched line, he grabbed his bag off the kitchen counter and stood in front of the taller man. How was he supposed to 'hold onto' him? Hug him around the waist? Take his hand?

Marluxia was thinking the same thing. Neither wanted to get close to the other, so there was a slight uncomfortable shuffling that lasted a little too long before Zexion linked one arm through Marluxia's.

"Ready?"

"Do I need to hold my breath or something for this?"

"No," he answered. "Just don't let go of me. You'll be lost in the darkness andpowers, Lexaeus would kill me if I let that happen."

Lost in the darkness? A less than pleasant thought. He wanted to open his mouth with a threat, but all of a sudden, the scythe shard seemed to eviscerate darkness. It bloomed in the atmosphere around them, like ink in still water, before engulfing them, and by then it was too late for anything. There was a rushing in his ears that would have drown out any words should he have tried to speak them.

All at once, Zexion realized why Marluxia had needed a glass of wine. Everything was spinning, drawing its soul-licking snare within a breath of him. Claustrophobic, he didn't notice he was trying to draw closer until he nearly stepped on Marluxia's feet. To try and ground himself, he glanced up at the man (or what he could still see of him in this swirling world) and realized that any moment, he _could_ push him awayand Zexion would be lost forever.

How was it that he was forced to be relying on this man? This cruel, inhumanly narcissistic beast with a pretty face and a flattering smile. Seeping from him were the memories of what had happened three years ago, all the worst things that this man had been at the core of. And soon he wasn't standing in the black abyss of nothingness, but he was surrounded by white walls. When he looked up from the tiled floor, he was suddenly in a dream.

There was something strange happening in Castle Oblivion. A bad taste was left lingering in my mouth, even a few days after the Lord of the Castle had asked me to join him for tea. 'Leader to leader,' he had said, and it showed in the tightness of his mouth how it pained him to say it. It was the wise thing to do, however-acknowledging that I held the loyalty of half the members of the Castle just proved that he wasn't as conceited of an idiot as he appeared to be.

Still, the invitation had irked me. Dots of ink scrambled from my vision across caramel paper and book strings to further prove the point.

_Little Jack Horner sat in his corner_

If I only could be convinced that this wasn't some sort of trap or ploy, I might have been more settled. It wasn't as if I was being asked to see him in his chambers or in any place private. I was being asked to the drawing room. For tea.

_eating his Christmas pie_

Nine hours after telling Lexaeus to wait up for me, I felt guilty. But he really should wait up

_he put in his thumb_

When I entered the drawing room, I could already smell something was amiss. It was scented with velvet, crisp and fearful. Run your hand along it one way, it flattens and smooths; run your hand backwards, however, and it bristles.

_and pulled out a plumb_

There was one light in the room-a circular frame to a scene that I would never forget. In a simple, clean still-life, Marluxia sat in a chair, waiting, his eyes already regarding me with a luminescent triumph. And there was a strange kind of table before him, too. I couldn't quite figure out what it was, at first, no matter how I tilted my head. Ah, but that was until it started to move.

_And said,_ "Welcome, Number Six. It is such a pleasure to have you with us."

Still framed in the doorway, I was too far away to really determine what it was that had been confusing me so. It was just that element of displacement; something was amiss in the room. Like a volume that had been stacked upside-down on the bookshelf of one thousand books.

Horror was my first reaction when the table-or at least, the topmost part of it-gave a jerk and a pathetic cat's-whine. Oh, but it was then revealed that it wasn't a table at all; it was a man. Naked and bound on his stomach across a granite countertop lay the man I had least expected to see there in a display akin to an erotic sacrifice. His hair veiled his down-turned, shamed face-for this, I was glad. I don't think I could have stood there one more second if I had seen his face-but there was no mistaking the bony angles that pressed unwillingly against the bonds that held him. He was gagged; the strangled noises that failed to form words attested to this.

"Do you like it?" Marluxia noticed my staring. "Number Four usually adores these types of games. But I don't think he was expecting company today, were you, my lovely?"

Vexen moaned and then thrashed, but was silenced as a brutal hand grabbed a golden lock of hair and _pulled._ Oh, and Marluxia simply chuckled like he had just told an exceptionally clever joke.

"Please, please come in, Number Six," the Lord of Castle Oblivion beckoned, ushering me to sit before him. Compassion had never seemed like such a void emotion until that moment when I followed without a word.

I remember almost being able to ignore the living table of flesh between us-it shivered and flinched and sometimes sobbed quietly, but Marluxia's eyes held mine, daring me to say anything to the effect.

"I believe I promised you tea, didn't I?" He said conversationally, "I will get you your tea. We have a long chat ahead of us."

The way he simpered did not comfort me. Nor did the way he summoned a steaming pot from the dusks with such gaiety. His domain, his presence, seemed to be the only one that could rival my own. Xemnas was easy to manipulate; Sax could be calmed with soothing tones. But Marluxia could see right past the inner workings of my mind, the very thing that gave me my nonexistent identity as the Cloaked Schemer. It was like being stripped down, being bound and-

Vexen positively _screamed_ as the boiling pot of water was set upon his mid-back, arching and curling in waves of agony. Even his ribs, catacombs so stark and humiliating in his nakedness, seemed to compress in an attempt to reel away from the source of burning heat.

Marluxia hit him across the exposed flesh of his thighs, no regard toward my appalled presence at all. "_You'll upset the water and it will spill all over you-now shut up._"

Vexen whimpered and forced himself to still, cords of muscles still trembling under the pale flesh of his flanks and straining arms. He looked so very easy to bruise. I could have reached my hand out against the curve of his vertebra and pressed down, just an ounce, to see if this was true. Ah, but he belonged to Marluxia now. The bonds made that clear enough.

Apparently the fit was over, as the Assassin was agreeable again. "Now. Sugar?"

"No, thank you." I croaked.

"No? Alright, then. I'll trust you." He said, rambling with an air of leisure as he prepared the tea. Like a simple housewife making conversation, he went on, "A curious thing, trust. Sometimes you trust too little, sometimes you trust too much. Isn't that right, Number Four?"

He didn't answer.

"Regardless, I think it's something we, as two reasonably powerful political entities, should be able to discuss," He cradled his tea in one hand, regarding me with a saccharine smile. "How much we trust each other."

"I will be honest, Number Eleven. I do not trust you."

False smile turned ever more false. "That is a curious point of view you have there, Zexion. I would have thought you'd have more faith in my convictions. After all, not to brag or anything, but I am the Lord of Castle Oblivion." A smirk. "Oh, yes. And I have a recent addition to my faction. As you can see, Number Four here happens to agree with my philosophies more than he agrees with yours." Fingers worked their way lovingly through blonde hair, sticky with heat from the cup that moved from hand to hand. "Don't you, dearest?"

Vexen did not say anything.

The playful fingers turned cruel and pulled his head back significantly. I could only watch, finally looking upon the stained cheeks and vindictive-looking ball gag that I had tried to keep from acknowledging ever since first laying eyes on his unfortunate position.

"_Don't you?_"

The once-proud Academic simply let out a wail. It seemed to please Marluxia, for he slammed his head back down without regard (it made a sick, dense sound) and turned to me once more, his composure flawless.

"You see? That just leaves you and Number Five to your positions in the basement. Let's keep it that way, shall we?" He lifted the tea pot from Vexen's back to pour himself another cup. My eyes dared not linger on the circular red welt its heat had left behind. "You know as well as I that I have no use for you, that Xemnas simply sent you to keep an 'eye on me.' The truth of the matter is, I don't need watching, Zexion. It would be best you remember that," he smiled, eyes refusing to contribute to the expression. "Okay? You and your marionette stay in your part of the Castle, and we won't have any problems. Should I need anything, Vexen will let you know. Should you meddle in my affairs, I will take great pleasure in soundly destroying you in the most painful, agonizing way I know how." A pleasant sigh, as if we had been discussing weather. "Another cup of tea?"

Zexion opened his eyes, and he was in a cornfield. There were two suns in the sky, forcing him to squint against the light.

"Wellthat went swimmingly." Marluxia let go of him promptly, taking a deep breath of the fresh air.

Zexion didn't answer. He simply stared at the four pairs of crescent marks he had dug into the palms of this hands.


	6. Chapter 5

**What We Do: Chapter 5**

Marluxia never seemed to be available in his quarters during the day. Perched up in the highest of rooms in Castle Oblivion, one would think he'd spend a little time there. But no. I had come to knock at least a half dozen times earlier that day to no avail. He had not been there-probably pruning his garden. Or, more likely, pruning his hair.

I had tried giving him credit. After all, we had only been settled into the castle for a week and, as Nobodies were creatures of habit, our routines were thrown off. Zexion and Lexaeus were almost besides themselves, more rigid than ever, as if trying to make up for the lack of normal function.

It wasn't as though I didn't have plenty of work, setting up the laboratory, shooing Number Eight and Twelve away. They pestered just to pester-really, who came all the way down to the basement just to ask for a pen?

This was ridiculous, however. Marluxia couldn't have been that busy. With what? Glorifying himself? Standing in front of a mirror?

By the time the door opened, I had almost forgotten that I had, indeed, knocked. I glanced up quickly on instinct, finding myself in the presence of none other than the vainglorious Number Eleven. It was almost humorous how he refused to open just _one_ door. Both had been flung wide open, announcing his presence. His ego probably couldn't have fit through just one, I remembered noting to myself, giving him a bland up and down look. I had seen him only a few times before in the great throne room at Never Was from a distance, perched as if he were the God of our order and Xemnas were simply the old, used master that was stepping down and handing him the key. But in person, he wasn't so grand as the others had been whispering. He wore a black cloak like the rest of us and probably had a capacity for intelligent thought similar to that of a dog.

"NumberFour, is it?" He tilted his head in the most pleasant of manners. Though something in his tone was reading vaguely-disguised distain, as it was too sweet. Probably to hide the bile.

"Yes. I've come to have a proper meeting with you and begin laying down some ground rules." I wasted no time with niceties, as there would be no merit to it. "Number Five and Six know what to expect when it comes to conduct in and around my research, but I am concerned that you and your neophytes may not be extending the same courtesy at the moment. Perhaps you just need some clarification." I leaned back when I was finished, looking down my nose at him. My expectations were to be made clear. That way, when I was being bothered, I had reason to impose punishment.

I noticed Marluxia stayed relatively quiet and still through my explanation. Perhaps once, I saw his eyes flick over me as if to size me up, then down the hall. His voice was still sugary as he stepped to one side, inviting me in. "Please. I'd love to have a little chat with you. It seems there are many things we need to discuss."

_There, perhaps he's not as dense as he looks. Great peacock _I walked past him, though those double doors. Inside, it seemed rather clear what he had been doing for the last week. It was a grand room of marble and open space. There was his bed along the far wall, fit for royalty and draped in white sheets. Two doors led from the room, and either could have been a door to the bathroom or a closet. Wide windows revealed a balcony looking out upon a night sky, vines crawling up to reach toward the speckled stars. In fact, vines were everywhere. They curled protectively over the banisters of the bed, they writhed up the walls, as if gravity were not a factor. They must have been the fastest-growing plants in existence.

Also in the room was a little sitting area and what I could only assume to be a faux fireplace. The whole chamber was grand to the point of being gaudy, just as gaudy as the meticulously patterned rug that softened my footsteps as he led me to the sitting area and gestured I take a seat.

Even the chairs were too soft. It took actual effort not to slouch down in them like a slob which, of course, Marluxia had adopted that laid-back position, one leg crossing over the other as he summoned dusks with teathings.

"Now," he began, lending himself some preamble. "You want to discuss something with me. Well, it just so happens I would like to discuss something with you, too. Since we're trying to get to know each other," he began pouring the tea into the china in a manner that made Zexion's usual grace and care look primitive, "I should think we can call each other by our names. And not those silly derived rankings-"

"They're not 'silly,'" I said, eyeing the way he was adding too much sugar to my cup. "They are efficient, as we are an Organization and not a woman's kitting circle-"

"I never quite found it important enough to learn your name the first time around," he continued with a fair level of acid overriding my own, "So I should like to commit it to memory now. It's only proper, now that I am your lord and you are one of my subjects. Your name, Number Four?"

Oh, how _dare_ he. The way my eyes flared up surely told him not to cross anymore lines. That the rank he spoke was, indeed, higher than his own and the wrath of Xemnas could be brought down upon his head at any moment should I so wishXemnasXemnas

I must have faltered, because Marluxia smiled.

"Well? Don't make me go all the way downstairs to ask Zexion. You're so stubborn. I think I like you."

At that flippant remark, I snapped back. "Vexen. My name is Vexen."

"Vexen," he leaned over the table just a fraction. "I have the feeling we are going to be wonderful 'friends.' All we need to do is understand each other, isn't that right? First, I'll try to understand you and your needsand then, you will understand me and my needs. Since you're the guest, of course, I will allow you to go first. Please, Vexen. Speak."

I should have known then that I was dealing with a monster far beyond what I could fathom at that point. I should have walked straight out the door and remained dealing with the neophytes that plagued me. Perhaps then none of what happened would have played out like it did. If I hadn't been so stubborn as to look him in the eyes as I challenged, "I want you to understand one thing, neophyte. Xemnas might have put you in charge of this castle, but he put me in charge of the members. If you can't count, I would like to remind you that the number 'four' is above the numbers 'five,' 'six,' 'eight,' 'eleven,' and 'twelve.' You may do what you like up here, planning and conspiring. But when it all boils down to it, no one here is to disrespect me and my private offices. This especially includes your neophytes. Keep them out."

As I spoke, Marluxia barely moved. Only twice did he lift his teacup to his mouth to take a sip. And when I was finished, he neither blinked, nor smiled, nor frowned. He was completely unphased. Then, without even the clink of china, he set his cup down.

"Do you like roses, Vexen?"

"pardon?"

"I asked you," he raised his voice a fraction, "If you liked roses."

I stayed quiet. I didn't like roses, butas Marluxia was beginning to stand, I wasn't sure what to expect. He doubled back around, striding casually, quietly over to his bed, one arm behind his back. Gazing upon the vines that wound up the banister, he cooed.

"I would like to tell you a story about roses. In particular, a story about a little something that happened to me earlier this month. You see," he sighed stroking a finger down the wood of the banister, as if longing for something, "as I had just arrived, the plot for my garden was not well cultivated. Very rudimentary, with an odd assortment of pests that I had to constantly keep clearing out. My roses, well, they grew quite readily with watering and care. But so, however, did the weeds. Some of the weeds grew almost too fast for me to keep clearing, what with the work I had to do. In particular, there was this rather nasty cutthroat threatening a patch of my most beloved pernetiana" He shook his head, looking to me. "Doesn't that sound awful?"

In the space that followed, I realized he was waiting for my answer. I cleared my throat. "Ermyes. Yes it does."

"Ah, but don't worry, Vexen. Roses are beautiful warriors. Propagating themselves over and in and the soil, their roots took hold, penetrating the cutthroat. Again and again, choking it, molding it, withering its very stem until it turned brown, wilted, and died. And, thus, my roses flourished." With a tap of his finger and a whisper of breath, a bud of the vine on the banister opened right before my eyes. White, virginal, pureand then it cascaded. Though the entire room, suddenly, a wave was created upon which every bud upon every vine triggered its neighbor into opening and pouring forth its blossom of fine cream. If I hadn't been there, in that room with _him_, I might have considered it the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

He had caught me staring around the room in awe, for when I turned my attention back to him, he was already leaving the bedside to come stand before me. "Weeds simply are not welcome in my garden, Vexen."

Our eyes met, and there was a challenge in both of them, and neither of us was bothering to conceal it. His anecdote was offensive and, quite frankly, quite lewd. And if I had to fight him

"You may go, Vexen. I know you must bebusy." He gestured toward the door. "I will inform Eight and Twelve to keep their visits to a minimum, and, in return, you know what to expect from me." Marluxia's face suddenly grew more sinister than I had ever seen it. Like the darkness itself was pouring forth from his heart to alter his face into something beheld of a madman. And it was at _that_ moment that I knew I should have run.

"Don't be a weed, Vexen," he said. "Because if you ever for a second thought that Xemnas was your worst nightmareyou will soon find out how easy your bones really are to crush." Then, most chillingly of all, he smiled. "Take care, Four."

Vexen put his pen down with a sigh. He looked at the clock, then looked out the window, and, at that point, decided he would need a cup of coffee to keep him awake.

Work had been enjoyable, at least. The other scientists revered his knowledge and respected his theories. But, since it was a little bit of a primitive world, he had to keep from revealing his true potential. The 1950's township he was in was still discovering elements. He was in a state called 'California,' though he didn't care too much about the beaches it was known for. Not as much as Dudley did, at the very least. Sometimes, when he was feeling benevolent, they would both take a walk down to the shore and enjoy a sunset, but mostly his preference for the indoors was respected.

It was usually on long nights when the memories of Marluxia were strongest. Sometimes he was able to retain it to the pages of his notebook, and other times, all he could do was lie in a sweat, pushing the blankets off him layer by layer to try and cool his body. Most of all, he just marveled at how tight those memories still gripped him, even after trying to force them all out. Nothing would ever make Marluxia go away. Nothing.


	7. Chapter 6

**What We Do: Chapter 6**

"Your hands are bleeding." Marluxia finally said. He and Zexion had been walking through cornfields for the better part of the time they had been in the world, and nothing had been exchanged between them thusfar. But the silence was overwhelming, and he was getting tired of Zexion attempting to wipe his palms on the drying, crinkling fronds as he walked through them. The stains they left behind were too obvious for it to be becoming of the schemer. A little pathetic, really.

"I must have scraped them."

"If you die because of some infection..."

Zexion let a cropped sigh from his nose, changing the subject. "Just how do you know where to find us? There are many worlds and universes. How do you track down the remnants of our order?"

"I don't." He pressed two fingers against the shard that bounced against his chest as he walked. "This does."

"It is a detector?" The schemer was absolutely nonplussed. "What, does it light up and flash or something?"

Ironically, Marluxia was equally displeased with this assumption. "No. To know how the Shard works, you need to know how the worlds are connected. This is something our science bypassed as Nobodies, because it didn't apply to usbut worlds are connected as a web. Without darkness, we cannot jump as far as we used to. Instead, we must travel along a certain prescribed thread with prescribed branches. A world could theoretically have only two or three branches, or as many as ten or twelve."

Drinking in the explanation, Zexion stepped over tree limbs and pushed past brambles, trying not to trip. "Soif the worlds are branched, how does this 'shard' know which way to go? Isn't it just random and futile?"

"No," he quickly said. "There is a 'resonance' that happens within each of us. This resonance has to do with the world we were killed in, and the fact that we were all thrown across the universes at the same time. The shard picks up on this resonance (as it is the same reverberation for it, too), and as I move across the web of worlds, it will always choose the world that brings it closer to another reverberation. So I am always moving closer to a world with a remnant memberit's just a matter of searching for them on each world. Obviously this web is largeyou're the first one I've found."

Zexion eyes him curiously. "You know quite a lot"

"I've been searching for three years. I've come across a lot of 'evidence' to support my 'hypothesis,' as Vexen would say"

_So Marluxia really does miss him,_ Zexion thought. It was strange to think about, surely. He didn't want to think of the assassin as a changed man, though it was becoming harder and harder not to. Of course he hadn't changed; he was still the Cloaked Schemer, minus the cloak. He was still just as he always was, never even missed afternoon tea. Just like he and Lexaeus always did at 3:30 sharp. Sometimes he fancied that Lexaeus, wherever he was, was having tea in some other universe at the exact same time.

The big hand that clenched around the teacup was still for a moment, two moments. The man was staring off into the corner of the room, feeling a little numb at the moment. Cold tea was all that was in the cup by now.

"What do you make of it?" His companion chimed up from across the table. "Thomas?"

Lexaeus looked up, used to answering to that name by now. But he was a quiet man by nature, and simply shrugged in response, finally setting the tea down to the china. "What do I think about the riot? I think it is unfortunate"

"No," the man across the table gestured with a heavy hand in the direction of the bruise that was taking on a nasty yellow color upon Lexaeus' temple. "The fact that that Luft kid had the goddamn guts to hit you. I mean, come on. He was just a scrawny kid, one of them newsboysyou're an officer, Thomas. And you didn't even do a goddamn thing about it."

True, Lexaeus was one powerful specimen of a man. He was built like someone who had spent his lifetime hammering railroad spikes into the ground nonstop. And part of his strength he was just born with-large hands, wide shoulders, tall frame. And a square jaw that hardened into a rigid line when he was deep in thought.

"They're just children," he said at length. "I don't feelcomfortable."

"They're brats-their riot isn't a worker's riot, it's a children's riot. They don't wanna sell newspapers no more, they don't gotta. N' they be causing trouble up Brooklyn, too. And then look at you: not even moving as an eleven-year old kid beats you over the head with a stick"

One finger found its way up to press against the bruise. It made a white, burning color flash behind his eyes. Lexaeus couldn't say anything to refute the fact that he had refused to hit the boy back. Not only was he hesitant to use violence in the first place, but the fact that when he looked into Arthur Luft's face, he saw a flash of Zexion behind those rebellious, prepubescent eyes made it impossible for him to even lift a finger.

He pulled his cap down over his forehead to hide the bruise.


	8. Chapter 7

**What We Do: Chapter 7**

I looked over the expanse of sheets and pillows that separated us, not knowing what to expect. Vexen, on principal, never spoke after the fact. Actually, he rarely said anything at all.

To my disappointment, the expression on the half of his face I could see was completely blank. No hatred, no satisfaction. That was more disappointing than anything, seeing him there, laid flat out on his back on the opposite side of the bed, as grand and plenty as it was. It was like there were miles in between our bodies, mine placed hopefully toward the middle, and his all the way on the edge of 'his' side ('his' side, titled due to the fact that the room dropped below freezing the moment I crossed the invisible line after our 'engagement' had concluded). It wasn't as though he slept in this bed.

"Vexen," I turned my head so he couldn't pretend as though I wasn't speaking directly to him. "Since you were so cooperative tonight, I think I'll send a good note off to Xemnas. Would you like that?"

There was a cold silence before he answered, "Perhaps."

"A good note about _you_. About how hard you've been working."

"Yes."

"You know I like it when you do everything I say."

"Yes."

I frowned. The only thing I resented about the way he performed for me was his clinical, calculative tone. He was _trying_ to ignore me. I didn't appreciate that. "Get up."

For the first time all evening, Vexen looked straight at me, eyebrows buckled. "What?"

"Get up," I insisted, throwing the bedsheets off him.

He curled his arms around his chest for a moment, looking at me as though I'd disrupted something important.

"Get. Up." I was tired of repeating myself-my tone implied this, and that was all it took to get Vexen sliding out of bed and onto his feet, still naked and ruffled. His eyes were sharp, mouth drawn into a straight line. The room was getting colder by the moment.

I threw open the doors to the balcony, letting the warm night's air waft in. "Come here. I want to show you something."

Hesitantly, he followed me. Flat-footed steps made deft sounds against the marble floor, his shoulders still drawn up in an uncomfortable position, just daring me to touch him. Frustrated, he blew at the hair that tickled his forehead and nose as he stepped out of the calm of the bedroom and into the breeze outside. His voice was clipped, impatient. "What?" He was probably used to being able to sneak out by this time of night, dressing as though I weren't watching the way the muscles in his back moved over his spine every time he bent over. This, to him, was an extra, unnecessary span of time he had to spend with me.

My hand reached for the balcony railing, patting it. "Come here. Get up on this."

Vexen didn't move, only frowning and giving me a flat look. "What? Sit on it?"

"Don't be daft, Vexen-stand on it. Face me."

He still refused to move, not even bothering to tell me that I was crazy and that I should just go back to bed. His eyes said as much. It seemed I needed to give him a little extra nudge.

"Vexen, you know I hold your chains. Don't make me repeat myself. Unless, of course, you wish for me to-"

"Fine," he spat, turning quickly to grudgingly test the railing for himself. His hands were pale and cautious as he held his balance, first lifting one slender leg up to rest his foot upon the flat ledge. His toes curled over the edge, as if trying to grip as best he could. Then his other leg came up, lifting him fully up onto the balcony railing, crouched and trying to find his balance.

I watched, thinking what a beautiful statue he would make. I would have likened him to a gargoyle of sorts, but he was far too attractive for that. Though he was mostly composed of bones that jutted from his elbows and hips, he had cords of muscles that pulled taught under his skin. Almost poreless, smooth as an unbroken sheet of cream. It was true that I cherished his body, coveted it; all mine. With his body, I could ignore the sour unpleasantness that his personality left behind.

"Stand up," I instructed, eyeing him and his naked splendor splashed against the night sky.

Still nonplussed, and perhaps even nervous, he slowly let his hands leave the railing, spine straightening to stand. And once he was fully upright, he looked down at me. Perhaps he was even a little smug, thinking that he was above me for once, looking down with a prideful tilt to his chin. I thought it was rather endearing, and only came nearer, letting my hands wrap around the back of his knees. He was cold.

"Do you trust me?" I asked, eyeing every inch of the body before me. I had him open and defenseless, backed up against a lethal drop-he was in no way above me, in no way in control. I had him, I owned him.

"I don't trust you." He answered, perhaps too eager to get his point across. Perhaps if he hadn't been in such a position, he might have recoiled.

"No?" Unphased, I stroked up and down the back of his legs. "Ah, but do you trust me more than, sayXemnas?"

We looked each other in the eyes for a moment. It might have been almost intimate had we both not been trying to hide what was going on behind our eyes, masks of gold and red refusing to reveal an ounce of our true intentions.

"I trust you more than Xemnas," he finally said.

"Good. Then we can benefit from each other." I leaned forward, listening closely for the hitch in Vexen's voice as I placed a kiss upon the skin of his inner thigh. The sharp intake of breath was, indeed, unmistakable. "I will keep you in Xemnas' favor if you keep yourself in my favor. And, to do thatyou will grant me the gateway to Number Six's last reserves of power in this castle."

Vexen's hair stuck to his cheeks as he looked down at me. "I can't do that."

"You _will_ do it."

"How?"

"It's simple, Vexen." I smiled at him, knowing how easily, now, it was to manipulate him until the breaking pointand all because of his fear of one simple, tired old man. "You belong to me already. You simply need to pull yourself from him, leaving only Five under his command. The two of them will stand strong together, as always, but they will not control the majority of this Castle. That majority will be defaulted to me. As I want it."

"Yes, but _why?_" He pushed at my shoulders, as if imploring me to let him down.

My hands pushed back to keep him there. I mocked, instead. "And they said there were no stupid questions"

"Marluxia!"

"Do it." I ground my fingers into the tendons of his legs, a blatant threat to his balance. "You have no choice anymore, Vexen; when will you learn that? The day you first came to me with your pathetic plea was the last day you belonged to yourself-face that, embrace it. And now do as I say."

As I pulled him closer, he had to grab my shoulders to keep from losing his balance. I watch as his lips curled back from his teeth. "If I could," he hissed with acid, "If I could, I would rip every hair from your body. I would peel the skin of your face back and pin it to your ears. I would chain your body to the wall and watch as you decomposed"

My mouth smiled and, this time, so did my eyes. "You'll do it, won't you?"

"I'll do it."

Marluxia stared at the patch of grass that had been flattened down to fit where the schemer's small body had lain. It was Zexion stepping over him to go wash up in a nearby stream that had woken him up. Of that, he was mildly thankful. It would do no good for him to have gotten any deeper in the memories-they consumed him sometimes.

As he sat up, he rubbed his hand over his face, a little worse for wear. This was the thirtieth world they'd been to together. Zexion seemed to be getting frustrated, as he hadn't spoken for days, seemingly. And, because Zexion was frustrated, so was Marluxia. This hadn't been easy for him, either, and it was almost laughable that the other could get so flustered after just more than a week of searching. Marluxia had been searching for three years.

"Ready to go?"

Zexion stepped over brambles, muttering something in response.

"Not a morning person?"

More mumbles.

"Neither am I. After a while, it gets better, though." Marluxia sat with his hands in between his knees as Zexion moved around the small 'camp' they had set up. They needed to move on. The shard was restless at his throat and that meant they could be getting warm. He didn't really know. He'd only ever found Zexion. And he only really knew for sure that Zexion's world had been the one the shard was leading him to because it wouldn't let him leave. He could travel to an adjacent world, but would always keep coming back, drawn by the resonance Zexion created. If that's how the shard worked, the faster they moved, the closer and closer they would be brought to the next resonance body

Briefly, he wondered what would happen if they stumbled across someone like, say, Axel. Would he have to come with them in order to allow them off his world? If his resonance kept bringing them back again and again, it would give them no choice but to take him with them, as much as both he and Zexion would hate that man's presence. And what happened if a person refused to leave their world?

Two pairs of dark eyes met and Marluxia took the shard in his palm. Like a choreographed motion, the assassin extended his hand and Zexion took it in his own. Darkness bruised the field for a moment and then they were gone.

"We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, don't we?" I stood in the glow of the moonlight for a few moments, knowing Vexen wouldn't answer me. I took a sip of my tea, tasting the pleasant crispness of ginger at my senses. Oh, how I enjoyed ginger before bed. "You know what your job is, don't you? Keep Five and Six out of my way while I deal with the Keyblade Bearer. He is mine, and their meddling will only displease me. Do you understand?"

Vexen hiccoughed.

"Of course, I know you have the tendency to rebel against my wishes, but this time, I think I've made my point. Really, you can be so dense sometimes. It's a good thing you have me to enlighten you." I took a candid glance in his direction, doting on the way his form curled over itself. Like a wilted sprout.

He hiccoughed again.

"Oh, don't be like that," I frowned, moving closer to him. "You know I only want the best for my very loyal, very _obedient_ servant. Hmm?" Every pleasantry in the world I had begun spewing out to him over the last few days as it came down to the wire. It was imperative Vexen listen to me and follow the plan. If I was forced to sweeten the pot (as every good leader had to do once in a while), then so be it. As soon as I got what I wanted, I could always consolidate my policy again.

This time, Vexen made a gurgling noise. Then he gagged.

The plastic stretched taught across the man's gaping mouth and his nose where he had tried with all futility to force more air in. Even with the muscles in his chest moving frantically against his ribs, he was suffocating like this. Vexen was so beautiful when he was desperate.

I moved my hands to cup his strained, hollowed cheeks, the clear plastic of the bag that enveloped his head giving them a smooth, snappish texture. Watching his silent, frozen scream with admiration, I nodded. "Do you understand how I need you to do this? This means everything. When I take my place at the helm of the Organization, you will have your reward. If only because you are the loveliest of them all" Tenderly I untied the cord around his neck and began rolling the plastic over his chin.

All at once, the atmosphere that Vexen had been denied rushed back in, his deprived mouth sucking it all in with a loud gasp. His chest filled once and then, in the same motion, he leaned over and retched.

Thankfully, it was not in my lap, at least.

"Vexen, are you listening to me?" I chided him, tilting his chin up and using my thumb to dab away a line of saliva in the same motion.

He simply stared with unfocused eyes, panting and choking and swallowing against the bile that had risen in him. Unfocused as they may have been, however, there was an unmistakable slate-coldness chipped in them. "I hate you," he barely managed. "I _hate_ you."

"Nonsense. You don't have a heart in which to hate me with."

"No," he insisted. "I hate you. Powers, I hate you, _I hate you_"

The conviction in his voice nearly startled me for a moment. It was as though he was beginning to believe it. Him; so clinical, so detached. He couldn't feel a thing (he had claimed time and time again that he couldn't feel a thing) and, yet, here he was proclaiming the presence of such impossible, overbearing feelings.

Perhaps it was just the lack of oxygen to his brain.

I gave him a pat on the cheek and smiled. "That's nice, Vexen. You can hate me all you want. Just get the job done."

Several floors below, Lexaeus reached over and turned out the light.

"Did you bookmark my page?" I asked, feeling the mattress dip down as he settled back into place.

"Yes."

"Did you ask Axel about the scuffmarks in the upstairs corridor?"

"Yes."

"Did you close the window in the bathroom?"

"Yes."

Satisfied, I rolled over. Every time, Lexaeus always managed to grant my faith unto him. He remembered everything I asked of him, and always did it with haste. Reliable and strong. Useful. "You please me."

"You please me, too."


	9. Chapter 8

**What We Do: Chapter 8**

Ienzo had a headache that morning. Dilan had acquired a rare bout of food poisoning from bad celery. Elaeus was tending to both of them. Xehanort had been going through a three-week-long 'only talking about sailboats' phase.

Braig, as luck would have it, was the sole member on the 'Get Master Ansem A Date For The Grand Opera' committee that year. This had been very unfortunate.

As was his character, he procrastinated until the very last minute: the day of the opera. And when he found out that none of the women in the castle (or outside of it, for that matter) had any desire to fall into Braig's hands that evening for preparations, he turned to the only person left who wasn't busy.

"Dude, it'll only be for the night. He won't even know it's you."

"No." Even clung to the bedpost, as if it would somehow save his dignity. "Of all the _inane_ things you have made me do over the yearsthis_this_ had got to be the _worst._"

"Chill, alright?" He stood in the center of the room, a lavender garment on a hanger clenched in his fist. He looked genuinely concerned at the moment, though it was probably all a put-on. "It's for the greater good."

"Just because you dropped the ball, Braig. Just because you couldn't get your act together, _as usual-_"

"Hey! There's no ball being dropped here-I've got the ball. You _are_ the ball."

"I am a _male-_"

"And you'll look damn good in this dress. Come on, just try it on."

"No."

"For Master Ansem, Even"

"No!"

Once reasoning with him didn't work, Braig resorted to other measures. And that's how Even found himself in a headlock that somehow involved a clotheshanger and a pillowcase from his own bed. They might have been men, but they still had their spats just as they did years ago as boys.

Forced into hair curlers and stiff women's shoes, Even stood in front of the full-body mirror. His mouth formed a semi-circle frown. "I don't like this. I really, really don't like this."

"Dude," Braig surveyed him up and down, more serious than anyone had seen him in a long time. "You look fantastic. I'd totally do you if you weren't already taken this evening."

"You're not helping."

Braig held up the dress. It was a light purple, silky to show off every nook of the wearer's body. There was lace somewhere around the collar to hide the fact that he had no breasts, but other than that, it was very plain.

Holding his arms above his head, he let Braig slide it onto him. He felt the heel of the other man's hand come down across the rigid mound of his shoulder blade and shifted slightly away. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"Sorry," one of them murmured.

Even tried not to notice as he felt Braig's hot breath panting against his shoulder. He had bent to adjust one of the straps that clung to the thin frame, but was taking too long because his fingers just couldn't find the latch. It was an awkward few moments.

Finally he stepped back. "There. No one will even be able to tell the difference."

"Except Master Ansem." Even blatantly noted the fact that he looked no different. His hair had a slight wave to it and he was in a dress, but his face looked entirely plain as usual. With the bare minimum it needed to pass as a woman, his body was not a very graceful one. His hips were bony and became two bumps underneath the lavender silk. The fabric only came down just above his knees, which were a little knobby.

"We'll fix it," Braig looked over Even's shoulder, just as concerned now that he realized that the addition of a dress did not make a person look all that much different. "Maybe if we slap some makeup on you. Make your eyes bigger, make your nose smaller?"

"You can't do that with makeup."

"You'd be surprised, dude. How else do you think ugly girls get pretty?"

"Touch."

And so, though it took several tries and washes in the sink, Braig and Even explored the science of makeup. They didn't bother recording their findings, for some odd reason.

Miraculously, Ienzo's headache cleared up with a bit of ice. Dilan's severe food poisoning seemed to only have lasted ten hours, leaving Elaeus completely free that evening. Xehanort still wouldn't talk about anything but sailboats, but that was per usual. He was still aloud to crowd the entrance hall with the others. One may have suspected that their previous illnesses had something to do with not wanting to be the one Braig picked on that evening, but that was purely speculative.

Even glared straight ahead to try to avoid acknowledging the other smirking young men. From behind an ornate, white fan (Braig had dug it up from one of the exhibits in the historical wing of the castle, convinced no one would notice or miss it. He realized that makeup, while it did make Even look like a girl, it was still quite obvious that it was, indeed, Even), he waved at Ansem, curling his fingers in a gesture that was a little too half-hearted to be worth merit.

"C'mon," Braig nudged him, escorting him closer. "Just be pleasant. Don't be your usual snarky self or he'll know right away."

"Shut up." Was all he could manage in return, for very soon they were within earshot. And that was when Braig begun his introduction.

"Your Masterdom," he improvised casually, certainly not making an effort to be formal, "may I introduce your Ladydom."

"Pleased to meet you," Even muttered, no more than a whisper so that he had to bother less with trying to sound like a girl.

As if there were some higher being looking out for Even's dignity, Master Ansem simply bowed and took his hand into his own and brought it up to place a peck upon his knuckles. "Likewise."

It was the morning of the 23rd day that Marluxia and Zexion looked at each other and almost smiled. For, after they had portaled away from their last world, the opened their eyes and were right back where they had been standing before.

The resonance was pulling them back. Finally. This was it.

The world had been cluttered with trees, everything was trees with fairy rings around the trunks, dewdrops scattering everything. All things considering, it was not a bad place. Marluxia rather felt at home.

"Who do you think is here?" Marluxia asked, looking out into a nearby grove, intrigued with a series of paths that seemed to lead to and fro. There was obviously life here. Perhaps semi-civilized life.

"As in, a group of people, or someone from the Organization?"

"Both."

"I don't know who lives herea jungle tribe of some sort? And I have no idea who would be sent to a world like this."

They were both thinking it, but neither wanted to say it: Vexen or Lexaeus could very well be here. After all, Zexion's death happened right after Lexaeus'. Perhaps their arrangement in the world had to do with how they died.

The first sign of life came from a nearby lagoon. At first, they just stopped to sit on the rocks and share a lunch of bread and cheese from Zexion's (by this time) well-used pack. But no sooner had they begun to talk then something stirred below the black waters. Ripple became bubbles, and bubbles became fins. And suddenly they were not ten feet away from what could only have been classified as 'mermaids.' Women with the lower bodies of fish and pointed, gleaming teeth and gills, sidling right up alongside the water's edge. Marluxia admired them from a distance, while Zexion was simply grateful that they were far enough from the lagoon that they couldn't reach out and touch them. The mermaids were watching them.

"This is an odd world," Zexion muttered as he packed up, a silent gesture that he wanted Marluxia to begin moving on. As much as he was ogling at the women, it was not helping him find Lexaeus.

Stepping through more fairy rings as they tiptoed through paths, they discussed the topography of the land and the variation of fauna and flora they came across. Mostly because there was nothing else to discuss and they were both alright with that.

They must have been talking too loud, because it was not much longer until they heard a wild scream, albeit muffled from the brush, and then something collided with Marluxia's forehead, sending him reeling back.

"_Ow__, damnit!_" He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, right above his left eye. "What _was_ that?"

Zexion, observant, crouched down to where the foreign object had bounced. He picked it up. "It's a walnut." As if about to show Marluxia, he twisted around, but was then caught on the back of his head by another crack of a walnut. He nearly fell flat on his face.

It was then that the rain of walnuts, empty thread spools, and wooden beads commenced, as if from all directions and all angles. Being pelted, it was all Marluxia and Zexion could do to cover their heads with the arms, duck, and run as fast as they could in any direction. Any direction at all. Marluxia hooked one strap of Zexion's bag in his arm, while the schemer took the other strap, determined to stay together.

There were shouts from what seemed like dozens of bodies, high-pitched. Girl-like, almost. They followed them as they ran, obviously efficient in a forest setting, still spackling them with various projectiles from between the branches.

Then: "_Stop!_"

All of a sudden, everything went silent.

Marluxia ground to a halt, consequently catching Zexion and forcing him to rebound back into the taller man's body. Leaves churned under their feet.

"We should keep running," he murmured, a little frantic as pulled at the bag, trying to force the assassin to relinquish it. "We could be killed."

"They said stop," he replied simply, his eyes turned up to the canopy. Nothing moved for the longest time. The birds even had begun singing again.

A blond-haired boy then stepped out into the clearing, wrapped in animal skins and painted in brilliant shades of blue and orange across his flawless, fiercely flushed face. He wore a headdress of feathers, but slowly pulled it off as he approached them, cautiously, a wild beast of thin limbs and curved fingers. Between them, he held pointed, carved wooden reeds. But they clattered suddenly to the ground.

"Marluxia," the boy said. It was clear, then, from the voice's cadence that this was not a male. It was a woman.

"Larxene." Marluxia nearly smiled.

The carriage ride was awkward. Even sat with his ankles crossed and his arm aching from holding the fan up over his face. Ansem didn't seem too bothered, and they took the first half of the trip in silence.

About fifteen minutes in, though, Ansem turned to him. "Where did you say you were from, again?"

"Far away," Even answered in that same whisper, trying to hide his male tone. "Very far away. Perhaps you've never even heard of it."

"I assure you I have. You underestimate my geographical abilities, my lady," he chuckled, trying to peer around the fan curiously.

"The ocean." As soon as he said it, Even nearly cursed. The _ocean._ Of all the things he could have come up with, of all the regions and worlds, he was from the goddamn _ocean._

"I see."

Even tried to look out the window and feign disinterest. It lasted a good five minutes before Ansem spoke again.

"No one has eyes like you, Even."

Automatically, he began to reply. "Thank you, Master-" He cut himself off with a shocked frown, turning to stare at the older man, fumbling to try salvaging the situation. Like grappling with an umbrella in hurricane winds. Perhaps he had heard wrong, perhaps, perhaps "I-I don't know what you're talking about. I'm notI'm not"

Ansem just smiled serenely over at him. "Next time Braig tries to disguise you, Even, make sure he gives you a veil to cover your eyes instead of a fan to cover your mouth. Your eyes are much too distinctive."

Even felt himself sinking. All dignity he had to speak of had hit rock bottom-his mentor, his teacher had caught him like this. Like _this,_ with his hair in curls and his eyes lined in black. The strap of his dress was falling down one shoulder. "Please," he couldn't bring himself to look at his master. "Please don't say anything toto anyone. I didn't have a choice. Braig isis incorrigible." In a sudden flare of rage, he clenched his fists, the delicate frame of the fan snapping in multiple places. He hardly cared, antique or not.

Ansem didn't say anything for a while, eyes flickering once to the broken, tangled fan. There was a lull between them where all they heard were the sounds of traffic outside and the horse's hooves on the cobblestone. Finally, he let a sigh through his nose, leaning just an inch closer to catch Even's attention. "You shouldn't let them bully you."

"I don't. I don't let them do anything."

"But you do." Ansem shook his head. "Look at me."

Even did.

"Even, you are a proud, clever young man. And that's why it surprises me to see how the others seem toget the better of you."

Not one to engage in talk about emotions and such childish things as 'fairness,' the young scientist kept himself quiet, chin jutting in defiance.

The carriage hit a bump and both of them had to hang onto the seat to keep from being jostled too much.

"You need to not let the others hold such notions over your head. It just seems like they scare you into situations where you're backed against a wall. Is there something you're afraid of? Something they're using against you?"

"No," he answered quickly. "I'm not a coward."

Ansem sat in thought for a few moments, reading the way Even had cast his eyes back out the window again. "You're not a coward," he said. "You're not, Even. But it's still something you have to prove. Or one day someone is going to find your fears and control you with them. Do you hear me, Even?"

Green eyes stared out from under mascara-blackened lashes. "I hear you, Master Ansem." He fiddled with the strap of his dress, pulling it up his shoulder again. "I won't let it happen. I am stronger than that."

"Good." Ansem leaned back, and then glanced out the window once to see they were nearing their arrival. "And Even? Can you do one last thing for me?"

"Yes, Master Ansem?"

"Enjoy yourself tonight."


	10. Chapter 9

**What We Do: Chapter 9 **

Marluxia and Zexion had been taken back through the jungle, trailed by a pack of prepubescent boys, most even shorter than Zexion. Larxene led at the front, strutting as only she could. The boys must have been the cause of the rain of small, hard objects only moments ago. They seemed curious and effervescent, but Larxene had only twisted around and hollered at them to get them to shut up and follow quietly

They didn't talk much until they got back to a series of large, hollowed-out trees. Zexion and Marluxia were led to some fur mats on the floor where they settled themselves down, not too close to each other, but not too far away, either.

Marluxia's eyes hadn't left Larxene. When she faced him, he looked upon her frazzled hair and strong jaw. When she turned around, he looked at her back. She didn't seem to acknowledge either of them too much, instead focusing herself on ordering the boys around her with a pointed finger and stern words toward those who were ogling and asking questions. Her voice didn't pierce or screech like Marluxia had expected. Instead, she seemed to have taken up a strange role-like an older sister to these bedraggled, smudged children, tutting them along.

When the last one finally scurried out of the room and let the flap down behind him, she whirled straight around, staring down at the two of them. "How?" She nearly demanded. "How are you here?"

"How," Zexion cut in, thoroughly disturbed by this sudden change in her demeanor from the witch he had once known. "How did _you_ end up like this?"

She put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at the schemer. "Like _what_, Bookboy? I'd like to see where you ended up for three years. Like to see you get on with a bunch of miniature terrors. Worse than you, even."

Ah, yes. Marluxia couldn't help but smile as he saw what he had hoped he would see-that spark, that old personality that even nonexistence hadn't kept at bay.

"Look at you," Zexion continued. "You look terrible. You're leading a band of toddlers."

"Hey." She came over to crouch down in front of Zexion to become eye-level with him, purely animalistic, cat-like. "Why don't you shut the hell up? Or would you rather I throw you out to the boys so you can play with kiddies your own size while me and Marluxia have a little chat? Take your pick."

Zexion looked about to push himself up to engage in something more forceful, but Marluxia's arm held him down. "Sit. Be silent."

Grudgingly, the schemer watched as the other man stood, bringing himself face to face with Larxene, wishing to have a private conversation with her. With Zexion, that was hard, but he could at least pretend like they were alone.

"Larxene," he reached out to her, no hesitance when he put his arms around her. He could feel her curves, still, underneath the layers of furs and belts that had hidden them at first glance. She was painted and speckled with dirt, but the rosy flush of her cheeks and the tint of her lips were still vibrant.

She embraced him back, genuinely glad for this sign of her past life, no matter how random the occurrence seemed. "You've got to be one lucky bastard. Or this is a joke, since I never knew that we couldjump worlds or anything anymore."

"Joke's on me if we couldn't." He drew the scythe shard from the place at his neck, and he could tell in her cornflower-blue eyes that she knew exactly what it was. Even as he explained everything about his search, his coming across Zexion, the world web and resonance, she proved her cleverness. Larxene was ready, poised, as if this whole time, she had just been on an extended mission. And here she was, back at Marluxia's side. Back with the one man who she knew could rule every world, every universe. The man she spent so many nights pruning with, confiding in, engaging in mutual games of mind and wit. This was not a new chapter-just a continuation of the old.

"Watch," she hissed to him, close enough to graze his ear with her whispers. "Watch, we'll do it this time. Nothing's slowing us down. Not Xemnas, not the rest of the Organization. McPuny here, wellwe can drop him off with my boys and no one will be any the wiser, hmm? You and me, like the good old days, just like-"

Even though she still granted him that same shivering burst of empowerment, that same instant dose of confidence, he had to grasp her arms and take a few steps away from her. "Larxene."

She frowned, looking back at him, not sure what she was supposed to see. Something different? Something changed? It had been three years, yes, but had it really taken so much of Marluxia's will away? Larxene could barely believe it, waiting for his answer and hoping it was better than whatever explanation she was beginning to formulate.

"I can't go back that way. I'm not traveling worlds for power anymore. At least not right now. It's wonderful to see you again, but this isn'tthis isn't what I'm here for."

Larxene pressed her lips together, then twisted her spine around to check the door to make sure no one was listening in. She knew now. "He won't see you, you know. Even if you manage to find him, he won't see you."

Somewhere across the room, Zexion snorted.

Larxene afforded him one small glance out of the corner of her eye, as if debating whether or not to go over and rip out a chunk of his hair, but decided instead to sigh, coming closer to Marluxia to hush their conversation more. "Look, dollI was there when you broke him. And I heard him at night, all the way down the hall. And I was there when you gave Axel the order. You can't pretend as though he'd ever want to even _think_ about you anymore."

Holding his jaw tight, he mulled over her words. "You've always stood next to me. You and I promised each other the impossible-that we'd fight for worlds and power until nothing was too large to be crushed under our feet." One hand lifted to press against her face, his thumb running over her cheek, smearing the paint away. "I need you to do that for me again. Promise me the impossible, Larxene. Promise me Vexen will forgive me."

Zexion watched the both of them, drawn into the way they interacted, as though no time had passed. Marluxia calmed her with his grace and she, in return, offered him a vivacity that he did not have on his own.

A small smile spread upon Larxene's lips underneath the soot. She gave Marluxia's arm a playful punch. "We've got this. By the time we're through, that man will be begging _you_ to come to _him._"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," he shook his head, unable to help the contagiousness of her smile. "But if you'll stand by me, perhapsperhaps we'll get what I need." As if just noticing him, she spotted Zexion still sitting on the fur mat, knees drawn up to his chest. "And let me guess-shrimpy here has his own man to play fetch for."

"Shut it, Larxene," he hissed. "I can't believe I have to deal with both of you morons."

"Hit him again," Larxene ordered, perched on the mantle of the white fireplace. The flames licked underneath her, but she hardly cared. All but one of her kunai was buried in the wood at her hip. She was delicately cleaning underneath her nails with the other.

"I'm not going to hit him yet," Marluxia protested. "He's been a good boy all evening. Haven't you?"

I could barely keep the acid out of my voice. "If you'd stop being so condescending"

Marluxia had kept his word. Every move I made under his guiding hand got me the rewards I needed. The letters to Xemnas in my favor were flowing from Castle Oblivion, simply bursting until the point where even the vivacious Number Nine was having trouble wanting to portal in and out as the messenger. All it took was separating myself from Zexion and Lexaeus, keeping myself silent in his presence (though no one could keep my silent when I was alone. At one point, I was sure the walls of my laboratory had had enough), and _this_.

He was buried inside me.

He was not a careless lover. And he was not an inexperienced one, either. He was not a _lover_, quite frankly, though sometimes he pretended he was. When he was rough, it was to hear me snarl and bark and to feel my nails against him. It was him exerting power over me, a wolf hunched over his bitch. When he was gentle and feigning passion, it was as a reward, though I had to admit that I hardly reacted to that sort of passion other than to lie still and allow him. Perhaps that is why he preferred the former more often.

I didn't like any of it, and yet I found myself obeying. Even when I saw the gag in Marluxia's hand, resignation had begun the minute I entered into his chambers. After a while, I grew used to it. It became less painful or, rather, I grew mechanisms to help overcome it. Soon pain was only a secondary way for Marluxia to torment me when he was in one of his moods. Humiliation became the first.

And that was how it came to be that Larxene found her front row seat on Marluxia's mantle. It turned out she had her itches to scratch and Marluxia was the only one here who could fulfill them for her. Not because she let him touch her, oh no. I'd never seen him touching Larxene. It was because he could exhibit the twisted material that she reveled in watching.

"Give him this, then," she demanded, pulling one of her kunai from the woodwork and bending down to stick the tip into the heat of the flames. "If you're not going to hit him, then give him a little something to suck on."

I watched as Marluxia turned his head toward her to consider, the column of his neck stark in the firelight. He seemed undecided; he was weighing the benefits and disadvantages. I had been compliant that evening, relatively sound. But now that he had Larxene here, he had to keep her content and shrieking, too. Finally, he glanced back at me. Our eyes met.

"Don't." I ordered, temper beginning to flare up.

His expression didn't change from that semi-bored, disinterested leer. "Larxene-"

"_Don't you dare._"

Marluxia ignored me. "-bring it here if you so insist."

Triumphant, she scooted down from her perch and sauntered toward the bed. Her form was outlined black against the firelight backlighting. Only the red glow from the tip of her kunai remained to light up the bare contours of her face. She was smiling.

Strong fingers pried my jaw open. They were Marluxia's fingers, which tightened as I tried to swear at him, my eyes never losing their venom. He looked down his nose, arrogance written in every feature, every gesture. And I hated him.

"Just think of it as a spicy lollypop, hmm?" Larxene's voice tugged at the hairs on my neck. Her arm pressed across my chest. "_Ay caramba_."

Red glow filled my vision until I was looking nearly cross-eyed. I felt the heat on my face, blistering my lips as it passed. I took a deep breath, because I would need it.


End file.
